Standing Orders
by wildblueyonder6
Summary: Rating:  PG13 language, Parental Spanking of a teenager.  Don't read if this offends you. John, Sam and Dean. For the prompts beach, church, hiking, running away, argument, getting lost. Sam's training.  He doesn't want to.


WBY Standing Orders

"I'm not tellin' you again."

Sam tries to stop the eye roll. Not because his father isn't an ass. He is. But there are some things that are givens. John Winchester doesn't make a habit of repeating himself. Sam knows this like he knows the sharp smell of a recently fired gun. And despite how pissed off his old man makes him, and he makes him pissed off on a daily basis, Sam's not ready for a knockdown, drag out fight. Not today. He turns slowly, with just enough insolence to irritate but hopefully not send his father into the twilight zone. Just because he doesn't want a fight, it doesn't mean he is willing to belly up to the man like a whipped pup. He tries to keep the bitchiness off of his face because he can hear the growl in his father's voice. And that growl is worse than his dad yelling at him. His father's low rumble was often a precursor to some kind of altercation, usually resulting in push-ups, crunches, laps or even his ass being handed to him. None of which Sam is in the mood for.

He squares his shoulders and stills. Faces his father with an expression that is as bland as he can make it.

"I got it, Dad. Get my ass upstairs, shit, shower and shave in twenty. Be ready to leave in thirty."

Sam watches as his father considers Sam's statement, knows it is made without a hint of regret or submissiveness, and knows it's disrespectful and pissy but his Dad must decide to take it on face value.

Maybe he isn't ready for a fight either.

Dad takes a halfhearted step toward Sam anyway just to prove he can, "Move it, boy." And Sam does, he bolts up the steps because although he can bluff and huff with the best of them, he is wary of John Winchester. That pisses him off too. He figures it should not be this way. That maybe other kids in other families have discussions that don't involve physical intimidation. He has heard of shit like family meetings and punishments that include time outs. The only time out ever heard in the Winchester house was when they were watching football. He even knew a kid who once said that his folks never disciplined him. That they figured he would make appropriate choices and would learn from whatever mistakes he made himself. They_ trusted_ their son. That sounds like something that Sam could get behind. Not this Winchester bullshit which states 'do what I say, when I say, and shut the fuck up about it'.

But Sam is a kid. He is just fourteen and as much as he would like something different or some kind of Brady Bunch life, that is not in the cards for him. No, he is a Winchester. Brother to the amazing Dean fucking Winchester, who can do no wrong, son to John Winchester, hunter extraordinaire. And all he is - is Sam. Just Sam and Sam is always too late, too uninvolved, too excitable or maybe not enthusiastic enough, not a good enough shot, not strong enough, can't spar his way out of a wet paper bag. Yada, yada, yada.

Grant you, neither John nor Dean ever said that to him, but damn if it isn't true and Sam's sick of it. Sick of being second fiddle, or in this case third fiddle. He figures that if they had a dog, he would be behind Rover Winchester.

Sam sighs, deep and heavy in the way that only a teenager can do. He opens the door to the bathroom. He decides he can piss and shower at the same time. Nothing like taking a leak in the shower to put you on the fast track of multi tasking. He figures he can be out in 15, have his shit packed up in ten. Sam has learned how to pack up in just a couple minutes, because you could never quite tell when Dad was going to get a bug up his butt and haul ass to some other stupid town. Or state. He figures if there was still a land bridge to Asia, they could find themselves on their way there as well. Have job, will travel.

Sam finishes his shower. Steps out. Carefully wipes the condensation off the mirror. He looks appraisingly at himself, notices how skinny he is. He flexes once in the mirror, watches his bicep bulge appropriately. Yeah, he had a little muscle. Grudgingly he figures that all the damn push-ups must be doing something. Still not enough though. He still looks like a kid, especially compared to Dean. He rubs his hand across his jaw; there isn't even a downy fur there. Nothing. He heard somewhere that the only way to get a beard was to shave. Well, that would have to be another day because if he is late he will never hear the end of it.

Sam pulls on boxers and jeans, and heads out of the bathroom to the bedroom he and Dean share. He has done a cursory toweling but his hair is disheveled and wet. He shakes his head once, like a dog. It will dry eventually. Sam throws on a t-shirt and a flannel shirt over that to layer. Luckily they are not pulling up stakes this time, just leaving for the weekend. That thought makes Sam grimace. As if this is some kind of family weekend trip. Mom, Dad and 2.5 kids kayaking or going to the beach or off to a weekend college football game. No such fucking luck. It is he and his brother and father, heading out to some Godforsaken forest for a little Winchester hiking, training/weekend from hell. He takes a whiff of his socks, figures they are not too bad pulls them on and jams his feet into his boots. Laces them tight with a scowl.

He can hear Dean downstairs, all but whistling with excitement. He grabs his duffle, shoulders it and slowly makes his way down the stairs.

When he hits the kitchen Sam mutters to Dean. He keeps his voice low enough not to be heard by his father, "I see no reason as to why I had to take a shower just to tromp around in the woods."

"'Cause you stink, Samantha. And we are going to be driving for several hours before we bivouac so yeah, I am glad you knocked the crust off."

Sam raises his voice a bit, "See, that right there Dean, is why our life sucks. Who the hell uses 'bivouac' except a god damn Marine?"

Dean grins, "Or the son of a Marine. Just chill Sammy, we'll climb a few hills, ford a stream or two, catch a trout and satisfy the old man and his need to make sure we can live off the land."

Sam's voice shakes with anger, "How about you do it, Dean?" He jabs a finger at his brother,"_You_ commune with nature and get back to your commando roots. Just drop me the hell off at Pastor Jim's. I'd rather sit in church all weekend then join Rambo and his warped version of survival of the fittest."

Sam stops his tirade as he hears his father bark from the living room.

"Okay boys. Let's hit the road."

With another sigh so loud that Sam even annoys himself, he picks up his duffel and heads for the Impala. He throws it in the trunk with a little more gusto than necessary.

"Hey, Sammy, watch out for my girl." Dean isn't playing. He hip checks Sam as he tosses his duffel in along with his dad's, "What she ever do to you?"

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. It's going to be a long, long weekend.

They travel through what seems like miles and miles of trees. Oh, they are on a road, but that is only if you think of a road in the broadest sense of the word. Sam was bored hours ago, but the monotony has taken on a life of its own. He doesn't talk, it's not worth it, and the radio gave up trying to pick up anything an hour ago and even Dean looks agitated. He listens to the quiet hiss of his brother as the Impala bottoms out in a rut. Dad is driving carefully and watching the road but when it looks like a horse and buggy should be navigating it, Sam can't really blame him for an occasional bump. Dad stops the car, shifts his gaze left and then right then turns to the right.

Fuck this. How could the man even find a trail down there? But he does and how it could be worse than the last one, Sam will never know. It's slow going, but finally there is a clearing and the road opens up to a hunter's cabin. Whether it's a hunter's cabin or a HUNTER'S cabin, Sam is not sure. But there is some crush and run scattered around in the area that passes as a driveway and he can almost hear the Impala thankfully grab gravel and growl her way up to the cabin.

Dad shuts off the engine and slides out of the driver's seat. Sam watches him roll his shoulders and lean back into a stretch. Dean shimmies out of the passenger side, mirroring his father. Shoulder roll. Stretch.

Sam just sits sullenly in the back. Maybe they will just forget he is back here. He has been almost invisible for miles anyway. Dad leans over taps the roof of the Impala for dramatic effect.

"C'mon kiddo, welcome to the great outdoors."

Sam slumps his shoulders, drops head but resignedly admits defeat. They are here in the woods and there is nothing he can do about it.

Sam slides out of the back seat, tilts his head up to the blazing sun shining through into the clearing. God, it was going to be hot.

"Aren't the mountains supposed to be cooler, Dad?" Sam figures that is as innocuous as he can grind out right now.

"Yeah, well it will get cooler tonight, Sammy. So make sure you have enough layers on. We'll probably be sweatin' bullets by lunch though." While he can't say that his father sounds happy, he is certainly seems more pleasant than this morning. Compared to this morning, he is positively perky. Why is it that both Dean and his father think that traipsing around in the woods is an ideal way to spend a weekend?

_Sweatin' bullets by lunch. This was going to be so much fun._

Dad pulls out a map, places it on the trunk of the Impala, smoothes out the wrinkles. It is a pretty good map, shows elevation, rivers and such, but this area is pretty remote. He taps what looks to be halfway up the mountain, "I'm thinking this is our away point." Sam doesn't mind orienteering. But he can think of a million places he would rather be than on the side of a mountain with his father and brother. Damn, he does not want to be here.

"Boys, here's the scenario. We aren't planning on camping, so we use what is in our duffels. We're going to make due with what we got."

Sam sniffs loudly, "Okay, so what is the reason we're wandering around, bonding with nature anyway?"

Dad shoots Sam a glare. So much for Mr. Perky.

"What?" Sam taps his chest twice and opens his arms palms up in the universal sign of innocence, "I'm participating in this training exercise. I just think I should have some background before we go all Donner Family excursion."

Dad looks like he might blow a gasket. Two minutes together where they have to communicate and already Sam is pissing off Dad. But Sam feels it is a valid question. Dad rubs his hand over the perpetual stubble that lives on his jaw. He can see Dad think about it a moment. Dad sighs, "I dunno, a Wendingo, Sam. There has been random killings over the last ten years attributed to bear attacks. We're checking it out."

He looks carefully at Sam. Sam, for his part, tries to keep an earnest look about him. Dad seems to reconsider his previous grumpiness, "Not really a bad question, Sam. I'd hope we would go into this kind of recon as prepared as we can, far more prepared than what we have in our duffels, but this is an exercise boys."

Dad nods to both Sam and Dean, drops his voice just a notch to indicate the importance of what he is saying.

"I want to see you two using your wits to survive out here with what we got. I checked this area out, have been here before, the woods are as safe as they can be supernatural wise, but this weekend is not about that. It's about using minimal supplies and making due. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Dean answers automatically, Sam knows he's not trying to make Sam look like the disrespectful son, but ultimately, it comes out like that. Especially since Sam says nothing. Dad looks pointedly at Sam. He expects a response. Sam grits his teeth, it makes him feel like a trained pony. Damn, John Winchester.

"Easy enough question, son." Dad says mildly.

Sam can feel Dean tense beside him, he knows his brother is mentally shooting daggers at him, but the question is to Sam, not Dean.

Sam could kick himself for being such a wuss, "Yes, sir. I got it."

His father looks at him, he can see him considering Sam, his attitude, trying to decide how best to handle his fourteen year old smart mouth. Sam wonders, not for the first time today, if he's going to push the old man over the edge. Not that he wants to really. Sam just figures he should matter. That Dad should at least take him into consideration once in a while. Sam is smart. Crazy smart. He's sure of this, but sometimes his family makes him feel like a moron.

He steadies his gaze at Dad. He has said the appropriate words, has ground out the appropriate response, why the fuck won't he let it go. It twists around in Sam's belly.

Dean interjects, "C'mon Dad, let's get going." He grins wide and easy. All but slapping his father on the back with enthusiasm.

Dad carefully folds the map, slides it into his back pocket. "Your brother's right. Daylight's wastin'." John takes point, followed by Sam. Dean is walking drag. Typical. Put the baby in the middle and hope he doesn't wander off. Sam doesn't say anything, just seethes. But he steps out confidently, moving as easily as his father and brother.

They are using a deer trail to make as quick time as possible. That just makes sense. It is going in the general direction they need to be going. They move fast, not jogging but at a pace that eats up ground. They aren't talking or bitching. That just takes an effort no one wants to expend. Plus, this isn't a joy hike; they are supposed to be working. They both do. Watching land marks orienting themselves when the trail shifts. Dad stops, arm up fist closed like this is some kind of Marine recon mission. But both boys know exactly what he wants. They stop in their tracks. Sam wonders briefly if Marines are that quick. But he figures Dad is just testing them, because although he listens and watches, he can sense or hear nothing.

"C'mon, Dad. If you want to make up that face before lunch…"

John shoots Sam a dagger look. It means shut the fuck up in no uncertain terms. Sam shuts up. Fuming again. He is so sick of this shit. He shakes his head, blows through his mouth then gives Dad the biggest bitch face he can think of. He doesn't even try to chill out before he does. He doesn't care. What gives the man the right to drag his sorry ass out into these woods? Make him skulk around following fucking hand signals and playing soldier. It is all Sam can do not to turn around, break formation and walk his ass back to the Impala.

He knows the way too. He can get there in two hours tops. Two hours and he will be back at that shitty cabin but at least away from his father. But not only does Sam not have the balls to openly defy his father, he knows the man would catch him before he makes it two feet back down the trail. His father is freaky fast. It's not normal that an old dude can move as fast as his father can, so Sam does nothing.

Well, nothing he has not already done. Because the bitch face works well for Dean, but Dad has been known to cuff Sam when Sam gives it to him. Sam knows this and is already shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, preparing himself to evade Dad's hand or absorb the shock of it. It just depends how fast Sam reacts.

But nothing happens. Dad just glares. Nods his head as if he is keeping a mental tally of Sammy offenses and that worries Sam even more than the potential whack.

Dad gestures for Dean to take point. Waits for Sam to pass him by as they start back up and then falls in behind Sam.

Dad's quiet, moves quieter than he should be able to. Sam finds it disconcerting that the old man is behind him, watching him. It kind of reminds him of a cougar stalking his prey. Sam chuffs softly to himself; it is his father after all. Sam focuses on Dean, follows him carefully and resolves not to talk at least until they stop for lunch. Maybe if he doesn't talk, looks like his at least trying to follow directions, he will get back in the old man's graces.

They make up the face of the cliff but it is a little past lunch, at least as far as Sam's growling stomach is concerned. He drops his duffel on a patch of grass, lays his head back, just thankful they are not climbing anymore. He is hot and sticky. Sam swipes a trail of sweat off his head. Dad was right about sweatin' bullets by lunchtime. _He's always right._

"Don't get too comfortable, Sam. You need to rustle us up some lunch."

"Well, what do ya want Dad?" Sam sits up, gestures open handed. "Surf and Turf? A little Vichyssoise?" Sam's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

Dad dumps his pack with an ominous thump on the ground.

"What I want is for you take this seriously, Sam. This may seem like a joke to you, but believe me it's not. And I've had about enough of your shit, and comments and eye rolls for one day. This is your last warning, kid. Man the fuck up and follow orders or suffer the consequences."

Dean is standing next to dad, shifting his gaze from his father to Sam. He all but implores Sam with the _Deanlook, _which is as obvious to Sam as the_ Samlook_ is to Dean.

Sam knows that Dean doesn't get it. Doesn't get why it bothers Sam so much. And Sam can't explain it either, but he doesn't understand why Dean falls into line at Dad's bark. Doesn't understand why Dean is satisfied to hunt and chase girls and hustle pool. Sam wants - no _needs _more. Sometimes Sam thinks they are not even brothers. It is a traitorous thought, because he knows that Dean loves him more than anything. Hell, he knows that Dad loves him; it is just he has a strange way of showing it. He figures that Dad hauling his ass around the woods could be some kind of show of affection in somebody's warped idea of family bonding, but as far as Sam is concerned, it is just asinine. Sam just wants to get off this mountain and get the hell away from his father, his brother and anything that could be interpreted as hunt related.

Sam sniffs hard through his nose, clasps his hands around his knees. He drops his head down then gazes up at the tree line and tries to compose himself. "Sorry, Dad."

He's not really. They all know it. But he has said it and that should count for something.

"You know what, Sam. Forget it." Sam can't believe it; the old man is changing a John Winchester edict.

"Your brother will get us lunch. I'm going to scout ahead. You're goin' to sit your ass right there on that rock and it better be sitting there when I get back."

Sam figures this is a punishment for his smart-ass mouth, but it is fine by him, let Dean and Dad play Grizzly Adams.

Sam watches as Dad and Dean leave. Well fucking la ti da. So he's sitting on a rock in the middle of the woods while the real Winchester men pull up their big boy pants and save the day. Dean will probably bag a moose for lunch and Dad; well he will find a built-in natural rock formation staircase that will make the rest of their climb easy as pie. Hell, he might just hew one out of stone himself. Sam almost howls with the indignity of it all. He's sweaty, hungry and ass is already numb from sitting on the, uncomfortable as hell, rock. He has had it completely. Sam sits for another ten minutes. Fuming, Hungry. Pissed. Why the hell would he want to stay here on this rock when he can walk back to the cabin? They wanted him to rustle up some food, well; he can rustle up a can of soup and some peanut butter back there.

Sam makes a decision. He stands, brushes off the seat of his jeans, grabs his duffel and heads back down the trail he just came up. Fuck them both. He is hungry. Sam slides down the rocky face of the mountain scuffing down on his ass, boots sliding ahead of him. Down looks a lot faster than up, he should make it back in a few hours.

Sam follows the deer trail as it angles back down toward the cabin. The whole time down, he smolders with anger. Sit on a rock, Sammy. Climb this mountain, Sammy. Shoot this, run here, carry this, shut up. How many kids have to put up with this kind of shit? He growls with the indignity of it all.

The trail peters out, runs right into undergrowth so dense that Sam would need a machete to get through. It suddenly occurs to Sam that should not have happened. They started using the trail pretty early and used it until they got to the rock face. It should have led him back pretty close to the cabin. Shit. He took a wrong turn somewhere. He should have been paying more attention to the way back. Well, he will just back it up, re-trace his steps. He heads back to what looks familiar, but really it's just all woods, so he could be wrong. Sam reluctantly figures that Dad and Dean had been paying far more attention than he had on the way up. He pulls his knife, notches a tree on the path. It should help; he needs to be smarter than this if he is going to find his way back down to the cabin.

Sam continues on, more careful now that it looks like he is on his way to getting lost. Well, down is down right? And once he gets in the near vicinity of the cabin he should be able to find his way back to it. Well maybe, because that cabin was shit in the middle of nowhere. Fifteen minutes later, Sam passes the notched tree and figures he is well and truly lost. Fuck. Now not only is he going to have to deal with leaving that rock, Dad is going to rupture something when he finds out that Sam got lost on the way back. And he will find out. Somehow. Someway. The man just knows shit like that.

Sam changes direction. He feels better about this, he is definitely moving lower and he has not passed that notch in a little bit, so maybe he is back on track. He breathes a deep sigh. Damn, he hopes so. Sam scampers down a particularly steep part in the trail and finds himself in sort of ravine, a little cliff behind him. Well, this is definitely not the way they came in, but he figures he can make it out. Except he's a little worried now, it's not real late and he has plenty of day light left, but the thought of being on this mountain at dark by himself is a little disconcerting.

Sam figures he'll take quick break, five minutes, try to clear his mind. He settles up against the little cliff. Above him he hears a pebble dislodge, feels loose dirt fall onto his hair. He looks up.

"Hey, Samantha!" Dean is on top of the cliff, grinning widely. "Did ya think you were goin' to get away that easy?"

Dean is about forty feet above him, looking down at him.

Sam can't help but feel a wash of relief. He's glad his big brother has found him. It makes him feel stupid that he was lost but, whatever, if the shoe fits. Suddenly, the rock where Dean is standing crumbles beneath his feet. It is almost slow motion, Dean falls, turns in mid air, but Sam can see him hit the face of the cliff. Dean doesn't fall directly down, it looks as if he is using the side of the cliff as the surface for tobogganing. Except that there is no snow, just rock. Sam watches his brother's body limply hit the ground a few feet from Sam with a sickening crunch. In a flash Sam is there, Dean's unconscious, a slick trail of blood dripping from his head. Sam quickly goes into triage mode. Making sure his airway is clear, feels a solid pulse in Dean's carotid. He may be out, but he's breathing well and the old ticker is ticking. Those are good things. Unconscious is never good, and Sam can already see what is the makings of a goose egg in the back of Dean's head. He quickly trails his hands under Dean's shirt, lightly palpates along his ribs on either side. They don't feel broke. Good. He reaches down to Dean's legs, it would almost look as if he is patting down a suspect, except Dean is laying prone in the dirt. Sam's hand comes away dripping with blood. Shit. Sam can see a large gash through Dean's jeans, sees the open wound under them. It looks as clean as a surgical incision, skin open, leaking blood. But not pumping blood. That's good. He's ticking things off as he runs down a triage itinerary that has been drilled into him before he could even read. He grabs his duffle, pulls out the first aid kit. It is small but he figures, he can put a pressure bandage on Dean's leg. Stop most of the bleeding.

He hears Dad before he sees him, Dad is shuffle sliding down the cliff, the fastest way he can get down unless he tries the Dean method of jumping headfirst. He slides up to Sam and Dean, scattering pebbles and rocks as his boots scuff against the ground. Sam starts rattling off what he has done, what he has found wrong. Dad's doing the same thing Sam did minutes ago, but he's listening to every word Sam says.

"Keep that pressure on the leg, son. "

Sam's doing it anyway.

"What the fuck happened?"

"He fell, from up there." Sam gestures to the cliff that John just toggled down.

Dean moans, low and hurt. Struggles to get up, but Dad's palm to chest keeps him in place, "Stay still, don't move."

Dean stills. "Jesus, my head is killing me."

"What hurts the most, son?"

"Head, leg, feel like I'm wheezin' like an old man."

Dad leans over to listen to Dean's lungs. There's no rattle, no tell tale, bloody spittle coming out of Dean's mouth. He thumps his chest, listens again. Dad trails his hands lightly down Dean's rib cage, mirroring the motion Sam used moments ago.

"Your ribs are bruised son. Just take shallow breaths right now. I don't think anything's broken. Your lungs sound clear."

"Great. Just great," Dean is muttering to himself.

Dad offers a tight smile in Dean's direction, "Just be thankful you have a hard head, kiddo. Takes a lot more than a swan dive off a cliff to take you out."

But as he talks, Dad continues to work on Dean, gets to the leg. "On three, Sam, I'll take a quick look and see what we got. One, two, three."

Sam releases the pressure bandage on Dean's leg, he is happy to see just sluggish blood oozing out. Thankful he did not hit his femoral artery. Sam didn't think so anyway, it's messy but not spewing blood. Dad takes a quick look, nods to Sam who slaps the bandage down again. Dad starts wrapping gauze around Dean's leg. Sam holds the four by fours down until Dad gets there. Kind of like helping to wrap a package with a bow. Quick release than back around again. It just takes a few minutes and Dean has a perfect field dressing on.

Dad rocks back on his heels, takes another look at Dean, "So kid, are you ready to finish this hike. Stop loungin' around like a prima donna and get the hell back home." Dad is light and breezy, like Dean is not laying in the dirt bleeding and hurt.

"Yeah, let's get off this mountain huh?" Dean starts to get up again.

"Whoa, tiger, hang on. Sam and I are goin' be your dancin' partners for the next hour or so. So you just wait until one of us is with you. Take it easy gettin' up. You feel woozy, let me know."

Dad gives Dean a hand getting to his feet, watches carefully to make sure he doesn't keel over. Gently slides his arm around Dean's waist and using Dean's belt as a handle shoulders most of Dean's weight.

Sam grabs the duffels, all three of them, distributes the weight as evenly as he can, criss crossing straps around his body like a crazed Pancho Villa. Now that Dean is up moving and Dad's here, Sam takes a moment to consider the last hour or so. He glances at Dad who gives him a grim look, one that Dean's far too busy trying to stand upright to notice. Sam notices though and he can't blame the scowl that Dad throws his way.

Dad is beyond pissed. Pissed that Sam disobeyed him. Pissed that Sam ran away. Pissed that Sam got lost. Pissed that Dean got hurt looking for Sam. And Sam can't even deny any of those things. He takes another quick look at his father. Dad is forcing Dean to lean on him, not giving him a choice in the matter. Sam figures that makes sense, because Dean will say it is nothing. But it is. Sam can see that despite the field dressing, the bandage is oozing blood through to Dean's jeans. He walks behind his brother and father. Not willing to look either one in the eye.

"Sam. – Take point. I want you out in front down the rock formation in case Dean starts to fall."

Sam scrambles to the front, eager to help out in whatever way he can. He knows it's not much but he is thankful that he chooses the safest route, that he is there to smooth the way a bit for Dean. He can hear Dean hiss as his leg gets jostled in a way that Sam knows has got to hurt. Oh, this is isn't good.

The last hour back to the cabin is a struggle. When the path opens up enough for the three of them to walk together, Sam slips onto the right side of Dean, putting his arm around his brother. Trying to take off some of the strain. It is a testimony to how shitty Dean feels that he allows it. Sam can feel the sweat dripping off his brother, hear the labored breathing. He knows it has to hurt like a bitch. Dean physically whines when Sam bumps him a little too hard.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Dean." Dean grunts. Dad says nothing.

Sam can truthfully say, when they make the final turn toward the cabin and he can see the Impala parked where they left her, he almost can almost cry.

"Sam….keys under the porch, get on up there and get that door open. Get the big kit from the car."

Sam is off racing up the small hill, he checks under the porch and finds the key, jumps up the steps and opens the door easily. He drops the duffels in the doorway. There are no lights, but it has plenty of natural light coming in the windows. He runs back to the Impala, grabs the kit, some blankets and runs back inside, setting everything near the couch in the living room.

Sam is back down to help Dad and Dean up the steps and in the cabin.

Once they get Dean inside, laying on the couch, Dad gives Dean a Percocet and some penicillin. He doesn't have time to wait for it to kick in before he needs to fully assess the gash running down his leg. Dean is half sitting in the couch, legs out in front of him. Dad pushes Dean back a little to take some of the weight off his leg. As careful as he can, gently unbuttons and unzips his jeans. "Jeeze, Dad….a little privacy here." But Dean is just talking to hear himself talk, Dad smiles, "Don't worry, Dean. Your virtue's safe with me."

Dean humpfts but Sam can see he tries to help dad peel off his jeans by canting his hips. That movement causes him to yelp and Sam feels horrible all over again.

"Let me do the work, son."

Dad slides the jeans down over Dean's leg and hips. Sam can't help but gasp at the deep, angry, purple bruises starting at his left hip, radiating up Dean's ribs. There are scratches all along his left side, some deeper than others. Dad soaks Dean's bloody bandage with saline, gently works the edges of it so he can pull the bandage off. He is careful, but it has to hurt. He cleans and debrides the wound. Once it is clean, Dad figures it needs some stitches and now that the Percocet has kicked in, he carefully sutures Dean's leg. Tiny stitches. Twenty two of them. Dad bandages Dean's leg, he is blissfully snoring by now. Percocet is the big guns and Dean will sleep for a while. Dad returns to cleaning the scratches out that run the length of Dean's ribs and torso. Checks Dean's head one more time.

Dad stands stretches. Glances in Sam's direction. "There's a woodshed out back, Sam. Grab a few loads of wood out of there and stack them on the front porch. It's going to get cold tonight."

"Yes, sir." Sam jumps up, snaps to and is out the door and down the steps faster that he figures he should be going. Thankful to have a job, to be away from his brother who is so obviously hurt because of him.

Sam carries a few loads of wood to the porch, stacks it as neatly as possible. He thinks he might just stay out here on the porch. With the wood. The wood is better company than his father will be. And Sam gets it. Really he does. His Dad has every right to be mad at him. Sam figures he doesn't deserve to sit inside anyway. There is no chair out here, just the steps. So Sam sits on the steps, takes a deep breath.

Sam listens to the door open behind him, hears the floorboards creak as his father steps out onto the porch.

"Dad, I…I'm sorry."

Dad's voice is low. Barely above a whisper, "I'm sure you are, Sam. But sorry doesn't cut it. You need to realize that my orders are not just to see how high you can jump. Or just to prove that I'm the Dad. You know this, Sam. But lately, I just don't think you think it through. I'm not sure you think at all."

John sits down next to Sam. Looks over what passes for the front lawn, drops his head then looks toward the back of the cabin. Sam watches as his father eyes the woodshed, seems to be contemplating something.

"Sam, on my six."

Sam stands brushes his hands down his faded jeans, follows Dad as he heads purposefully toward the woodshed.

Woodshed? Did his dad really want him in the woodshed?

Sam figures his dad wants more wood. Although, Sam is pretty sure he got enough for tonight

Sam stops at the door of the shed, watches as his dad opens it. The wood shed is dimly lit from a small window that sits off two one side. Sam notices the piles of wood neatly stacked in careful rows. Larger logs in the back, kindling toward the front. Sam can see a large stump, the one he just stepped around a moment ago with out a thought to it. His dad stops, turns arms folded over his chest. His father is not gathering wood nor asking Sam to. Dad glances at a leather strop that hangs near the front door.

"Dad, you can't possibly…there is no way…" he stutters a bit.

"Don't worry, son, we won't need that."

Sam breathes a heavy sigh of relief. His father has never hit him with a strop before, but they are in a woodshed after all.

Dad motions to the stump sitting conveniently near the door. "Drop your jeans, Sam and lean over that stump."

Dad isn't yelling but he doesn't look like he is joking either.

"I thought you wouldn't be needing that?" Sam looks pointedly at the strop.

"I won't, I'll be using this." And with that Dad unbuckles his belt and slides it quickly through the belt hoops of his jeans.

Sam can't help but gulp. His father has never wacked him with a belt. Never. Dean has gotten it once for taking the Impala without permission. Dean swore to Dad and to Sam and God Himself that once was enough for him. And Sam believed him.

"Dad, don't ya think this is overkill. I mean, I said I was sorry. I am. Really."

"I told you before, Sam, I believe you're sorry, but being sorry and knowing for sure that your actions have consequences are two different things. This isn't just about disrespect or sullen attitude. This is about you endangering yourself, your brother and me. It's not going to happen again."

Sam can't believe this is happening. Dad is talking quiet. He's not yelling. It gives Sam some hope that he might be able to change his father's mind. Maybe.

"C'mon, Dad. Spankings are…" Sam searches for a word, "antiquated. All the experts agree that it does nothing to actually change bad behavior. That it's certainly not an enlightened form of parenting." Sam is on a roll now, he thinks he is making some valid points.

His father narrows his eyes, his face darkens a bit, "Well Sammy, first of all,when have I ever parented in any way, shape, or form that leads you to believe I'm enlightened? Secondly, I've never much cared about what experts have to say about how I raise my children. Hell, I don't much pay attention to friends who offer suggestions. And thirdly, I've a feeling that getting your ass beat today will make a change in your behavior, at least for a while. And probably for quite a bit of time after that."

Sam can't believe he is having a clinical discussion on the pros and cons of corporal punishment. The whole situation is ridiculous. Yeah, he fucked up but standing in a woodshed arguing with your father about getting you butt blistered? That was indicative of his overall fucked up life.

"What's it gonna prove, Dad? That you are bigger than me, stronger than me? 'Cause you are, Dad. News flash! You win the pissing contest." Sam is yelling now he can feel the anger come back to him. It washes over him undiluted. He can feel the rage roaring in his ears. Dean got hurt, yeah it was Sam's fault but here goes Dad, pushing him around again, just because he can.

Dad gives Sam a baleful glare. "This has nothin' to do with a power play, Sam. It has everything to do with you for some reason, thinkin' you can ignore my orders. That has never been acceptable, and obviously talkin' has not worked, PT hasn't worked, showing my obvious disapproval hasn't worked, so the next step is an ass whippin'. That's why you're getting your ass beat, Sam. Because you didn't follow a direct fuckin' order."

"Dad… Reality check. I am not a soldier! I don't take orders! "

Dad's voice rises a bit. "Exactly, Sam – you are not a soldier, but you are my son and unfortunately for you that means you take_ my_ orders. This ain't nothing new, Sam but if we have to revisit why you do what I say when I say it, than that is what we're gonna do. Right here, right now."

"I am done talking, Sam. Drop the jeans and shorts and bend over that stump. If that doesn't work for ya, we can do it over my knees but it's happenin' and it's happenin' now." Dad's voice is low and dangerous. Sam shakes his head but complies, leans over the stump, unbuttons and unzips, drops trou and boxers in one quick sweep. He drops his head below his braced hands. Takes a deep breath. Sam's flannel shirt is covering his ass, but Dad quickly pulls it up and before Sam even has a chance to register the brisk air on his ass, the first lick of the belt comes down.

Hard.

Sam yelps. He's thankful the stump is there because his first response is to leave, he leaps forward at the impact, bangs his hip hard on something.

"FUCK."

The first swack is quickly followed by another five, each lick laying a blazing trail along his butt. To say that Sam doesn't whine or yelp at each lick would be a lie. But Sam doesn't feel too bad about yellin' a bit, because John Winchester has a strong swing, and Sam really doubts that too many men could take a strappin' from his Dad and not howl a bit. Sam is not really sure how many times the belt whacks ass, but it is more than enough for him. The last stroke leaves him gulping deep breaths, trying to control the sudden hitch in his breathing. Dad makes sure his ass is on fire before he stops. Sam can feel the sting from the top of his ass to the bottom of his thighs. Holy, shit…he is not going to be sitting down anytime soon.

"Fuck, Dad. Have you been practicing or something?" Sam's voice is low and shaky, husky with tears.

"You boy, better watch your mouth. I can add a lick or two for the language if you want."

"No, sir."

He glances back at his father, sees his dad offer a slight smile,"Yeah, I expected as much."

Sam thinks Dad might be finished but then Dad moves up behind him grabs a hold of his collar, props his knee up on the stump and tips Sam over his knee.

"Now this part, Sam is for every eye roll, all the back talk, all the disrespectful comments and bitchy faces you have given me over the last 24 hours alone. This part Sammy-boy is personal."

Sam doesn't have time to struggle or open his mouth before dad lays a dozen open handed swats to his already blazing ass. And he doesn't know how Dad's hard hand can hurt worse than that fucking belt but if feels like maybe it does. When Dad stops Sam is crying, deep gulping breaths. Dad leaves him sobbing over his knee for minute. Then he gently rights him. Gestures roughly to Sam that he can pull up his pants. Dad turns away to give Sam just enough privacy to handle that on his own.

Sam gingerly pulls up his shorts and jeans. He grimaces as the fabric of this underwear touched against his hot bottom. His ass has to be beet red. Sam takes another shallow breath but he keeps his head down, looking at his shoes, crying silently in a wood shed. Sam zips most the way up, but leaves the button undone. He wants as little pressure as possible touching his ass. He wonders briefly if he could just walk butt naked back to the cabin.

Dad reaches over to Sam, draws him into his chest and for the life of Sam he has no idea why he lets the old man do it. His ass is on fire, he has tears running down his face and he can barely breathe. All because Dad has just walloped him within an inch of his life.

And still.

He leans into his father, feels his dad's strong arms pull him into a hug, Sam burrows his head into his father's shoulder, allows himself another wracking sob before he realizes that dad is almost rocking him. It is comfortable and feels good to be held.

"M'sorry, Dad. I never meant Dean to get hurt."

"I know, son." Dad's voice is a low rumble but there is no menace now, it is almost soothing. "Let's try not to have this conversation again anytime soon, okay?"

"Yes, sir." It is automatic but probably one of the most heartfelt yes, sirs that Sam has offered in months.

Dad hands Sam a handkerchief, gives the kid a minute to calm himself down. Then he loops his arm around Sam, gives him another brief hug and then pushes the door open to the woodshed. The late afternoon sun is still bright and Sam shields his eyes after the dimness of the wood shed. Dad keeps his arm draped around Sam as they walk back to the cabin. Neither one talks. There is nothing more to say.

When they walk into the cabin, Sam notices that Dean is awake, probably has been for a few minutes. As much as Percocet puts him to sleep, knowing his father and brother were not in the cabin probably woke him up.

Dad passes by Dean. Gently touches a hand to his forehead, checking briefly to see if there is any temperature.

"How ya feelin', Dean?"

"Kind of like I fell off a cliff."

Dad snorts softly, "Never a wise choice, Dean. Try to get some rest." He walks into the kitchen area and starts the makings for coffee.

Sam stands next to Dean, he thinks about pulling a chair over but that would mean his ass would have to sit on something. He opts for leaning against the couch, carefully avoiding any ass to couch contact, "Hey, Dean. I…I am so sorry. I never meant…"

Dean interrupts Sam, "Shut up dickhead." Despite the drug induced slur, it is obvious that Dean isn't mad.

"Dean, I never wanted you…" Now Dean adds a snap to his voice, puts a little authority into it.

"Shut the fuck up, Sammy. What do you want to sing Kumbaya or something?" Dean glances at Sam. Sam shakes his head, purses his lips, but he can't really be mad, he has fucked this up big time.

"You okay?" Dean's voice is gentle. The soothing big brother voice Sam has known all his life.

Sam nods. Drops his head to study his boots. He feels a slow blush rise up his neck and head but he is not really embarrassed by Dad kickin' his ass this is Dean after all. It's more the blush of embarrassment for fucking it up all to hell in the first place.

He figures that Dean knows what's what. He doesn't even try to hide shit from Dean, his brother is wicked smart, and knows Sam inside and out.

"So, are you grounded too?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

Dean grins, offers a slightly opiate induced eyebrow waggle.

"So, little bro, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worse the old man has dished out. What are you rating this one."

It's an old game, Sam remembers Dean and he both standing in front of mirrors, drawers dropped below rosy red butts, each trying to figure out who got the worse of that particular spanking. When they were little, it seemed to be a badge of honor, whose butt got roasted more. It was usually Dean. Dean was older and should've known better. Dean was the CO when Dad was not there, so he was the one who was responsible when things went down hill.

Like the shed fire in Topeka or the dreaded Superman snafu of 88. Sam grins thinking about the crap they got into as little kids. And really, it was never all that bad, not the deeds nor the punishments. And Dad really only got spankin' mad when somebody did something totally reckless and disobedient.

"Well, Dad broke out the belt on this one, Dean. So for me, I would guess 9. Not 10 because there's always room for improvement."

Dean whistles low.

"Jesus, Sam. I didn't get that version of Winchester what for until I was 15. Remember when I 'borrowed" the Impala without permission." Dean smiles, slow and lazy, "Ah, good times." Dean sounds nostalgic and sympathetic at the same time.

"Great, Dean. The one time I get something up on you and it's something I would rather not have."

They can hear Dad puttering around the kitchen. "Did ya get the," Dean drops his voice a notch lower, dumps a little growl in his voice, "So, kiddo, you learn anything from this? – speech?"

"Nah, not really too much talkin' involved. Just a lot of yellin' on my part. "

Dean looks a little shocked. "I didn't hear a damn thing. Ah, the wonders of Percocet."

"Well - we went to the woodshed."

Now Dean laughs out loud, "The woodshed? Damn Sammy. I always thought that ol' trip to the woodshed was something out of a bad western."

"Me too, until today," Sam smiles ruefully.

"Hey, Dean." Sam quirks a eyebrow in Dean's direction, "How'd you find me so fast? You know, out in the woods. You were supposed to be getting lunch. I figured you would be gone an hour at least."

Dean smiles, "Jeeze, Sammy. You are such an easy read. I knew damn well you were goin' to head back to the cabin. You're an open book, kiddo."

Sam looks a little puzzled, "So, what, you were followin' me all along? The whole time I was wandering around in the woods."

"Just about, Sam. I gotta watch out for ya, kid."

"Well, you did a bang up job there, Dean. Maybe you oughta watch out for yourself. You fell off a cliff."

Dean grimaces, "Yeah, not one of my finer moments. Well, I hope your learned your lesson young man." Dean arches his brows, gives Sam a stern look.

Sam stands hisses when his ass touches the couch inadvertently, "So what's the moral of the story, Dean? What's the lesson learned? Other than, it is smarter to listen to the old man than to ignore him."

Dean yawns again, the Percocet is working its magic, "Shit Sammy, you weren't ignoring him, you were waving red flag in front of him. Never a good move, Sam."

"Yeah, I getcha."

Dean is quiet. Sam thinks he might have dropped off to sleep, but he stirs when he hears Dad come up behind the couch.

"Dean, get to sleep. You are on concussion watch so you'll be waking up every hour or so, best to sleep while you can."

"Yeah, Dad. M'kinda sleepy," A moment later Dean's softy snoring and it's just Sam and Dad again.

"So Sam, what_ do_ you think the lesson learned today is?" Dad startles Sam with the question; he didn't think he was listening to their conversation.

"What? What do ya mean?"

"You know, other than waving a red flag at your old man, what would be the lesson here?"

Sam considers the question, "I dunno, Dad. Not to piss you off? Follow orders? Pay attention? Sit my ass down where you tell me to? Not walk off in a huff, just cause I can? Just try to do better, I guess. I pretty much screwed it all up today."

Sam isn't looking for comfort; he is truly baffled by his father's question.

Dad laughs out loud. It is a good sound, "Yeah, you kind of pushed every button I got huh?"

Sam smiles too, "Yes, sir."

"Well, Sam, all of that is important but I think the big lesson is, that you already know these lessons."

Now Sam's totally lost. His dad is sounding like a Winchester version of Yoda. Very unlike the man and despite all of Sam's brainpower, he has no idea what he's talking about.

He looks quizzically at his father, furrows his brow, "I got no idea what you are talkin' about, Dad."

Dad speaks patiently and low, "Today, Sam. When your brother fell off the cliff. You were the first one to him. You triaged him exactly as you were taught. You thought on your feet, you handled a potentially dangerous situation exactly as I would have expected you to. You followed orders. To the letter. A textbook version of how to handle that kind of trauma. I'm proud of you."

Sam looks at his father suddenly blushing. Proud of him? After the woodshed incident? How can he be proud of him? "I don't get it, Dad. I was on automatic pilot. Dean was hurt, I wasn't thinkin' or tryin' to be brave or anything like that. Just tryin' to get him stable and make sure he was okay."

"And that son, is why following orders is so necessary in this job. It has to be second nature. You have to drill and be prepared and be ready to step up to the plate, just like you did today. If you hadn't followed standing orders on triage you wouldn't have known what to do. So when we train, drill, run, spar or do any of the things that you can't stand, we are doin' it for a reason."

Sam nods head. He can see what his dad is talking about, "Well, shit Dad. All you had to do was say so."

Now it is John's turn to offer an arched eyebrow at Sam, "You've got to be kidding. I say so all the time. And if you think I am going to give you a detailed explanation as to why I want something done, you obviously have me confused with someone else."

Sam grins, it is a impasse of sorts. He and dad just don't think exactly the same way. Or maybe they think too much alike. He's not sure.

"Well, while sleeping beauty catches a few more Zs, let's get some of that wood in. It's gonna be cold tonight."

"Yes, sir." Sam agrees, but suddenly it doesn't feel quite so cold at all.

end


End file.
